


Flambé et glacé

by Sylphid



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Cooking School AU, Fluff, M/M, When seijoh's coach is low-key a wingman
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-30
Updated: 2017-01-30
Packaged: 2018-09-21 00:22:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9522746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sylphid/pseuds/Sylphid
Summary: Lighting a steak on fire and baking a seven-tiered cake couldn't be farther apart in the world of cooking.So why did Tsukishima keep running into Kuroo?





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [akishime](https://archiveofourown.org/users/akishime/gifts).



> Merry (checks calendar--only a month and five days after, we're still good) Christmas, akishime!
> 
> I'm not really sure how this turned out, but I really hope y'all enjoy!

The Culinary Academy of Kanto has oft been distinguished for its instructional finesse and seldom been ignored by aspiring cuisiniers and cuisinières alike. Thousands of applicants pour in every year, all hoping to earn a spot among its esteemed ranks. After all, if you can graduate from Kanto, your career as a gourmet chef is _sage comme une image_.

Unfortunately, most people can’t graduate from Kanto. The classes are rigorous. The professors, chefs themselves, are draconian. Most of the students that get into the program are out of it by the end of the first semester. Until you can secure a spot in the specialization of your choice, every other person there is your enemy. 

Tsukishima Kei just wanted his first semester to be over.

Unlike the first semesters of most other people, his had gone relatively smoothly. He came from a family of revered chefs, his father, mother, and brother, all masters in their respective fields. Naturally, he had sufficient skills in each area of the kitchen--advanced, even. He passed each test given to him with flying colors.

But he was not content. Not content, that is, to still be lumped with the _rest_ of the aspiring chefs.

“Their line of work is tactless,” Tsukishima mutters, staring at the ephemeral burst of flames on the opposite side of the kitchen. He shakes his head.

The boy next to him frowns and his nose crinkles. “Tsukki, we’re all here for the same reason.”

Tsukishima clicks his tongue, his eyebrows furrowing. When the time for specialization came, they planned to become pâtissiers together. The preparation of every single item on the dessert menu belonged to them and them alone, the construction of each sweet and fluffy pastry done under their supervision. The last line of defense in the restaurant required a certain degree of delicacy. After all, what good is a meal if the confections that follow it are unsatisfactory? And certainly, even if an entrée fails to impress, a dessert can have a sort of redemptive quality. Indeed, a dessert can determine the impact of a restaurant.

“Yes, I suppose that’s true,” Tsukishima started, turning back to the _petit fours_ in front of him. “But igniting a piece of meat with an alcoholic flame does not make you a chef.” 

Yamaguchi giggled. “I’m pretty sure there’s more to it than _that_.”

“Perhaps…” Tsukishima droned. He looked once more to his back. A boy with a nest of stray black hairs was flipping a cut of sizzling veal into the air for no apparent reason, his cohorts whooping and howling. Tsukishima grimaced. “And perhaps it’s just the people doing it.”

Yamaguchi turned around. “I get the feeling that it’s one chef in particular that’s bothering you.” Tsukishima remained stalwart. “Kuroo Tetsurou. He’s actually one of the better chefs here, from what I’ve heard.”

Tsukishima finished plating his _petit fours_ , ready to take them to their professor. “Doubtful.”

Irihata Nobuteru wore the same cold fish expression that he usually wore. Seeing Tsukishima walk over with his tray so soon after they started raised his eyebrows, but they dropped when he saw the quality of the dessert. 

“Fine work, as always, Tsukishima-kun.”

“I hope my consistency isn’t boring you, sir.” Tsukishima responded.

A dry chuckle. “Not at all. I was surprised by your haste today.”

This was how many of their exchanges transpired. Few words, but generally enjoyable conversations.

Tsukishima gave a coy smile in return. “And I hope you aren’t implying a decrease in quality based on the speed of my work.”

“I only imply that you are a talented confiseur,” Irihata replied. “And boulanger, and glacier.” Irihata straightened in his chair. “Us professors will probably be extending invitations to our individual schools in the coming weeks… I hope that you keep your mind open when you decide which invitation to accept.”

The verbal message was clear--Irihata wanted Tsukishima to pick the pâtissier school. Which he probably would. But the subverted message was perhaps more intriguing--Irihata assumed that even the other professors would want Tsukishima for their schools? 

_That’s amusing. Not that I’d pick any of those vulgar schools_.

“I appreciate your concern, Irihata-sensei,” Tsukishima said, bowing his head. “But I’m pretty sure yours is the school I’ll pick.”

“Good, good,” the head pâtissier responded, chuckling. “I was just worried seeing you stare at Kuroo-kun. Thought you may have been considering him instead of me!”

That certainly wasn’t something he expected to happen. A warmth spread across his cheekbones. It lingered there, if only for a moment, as Tsukishima struggled to create a reply. “W-What?” he finally stammered.

For the first time in a while, Irihata let out a full-bodied laugh, waving one of his hands in front of him, and rubbing his forehead with the other. Eventually, he calmed enough to speak.

“I apologize for being so assumptive,” he managed. “Still… _C’est dommage_.”

_It’s a shame?!_

“You’re free to go. Get some rest before Monday’s semester exam.”

Tsukishima was still in shock as he turned to leave the hall. “T-Thanks…”

About three quarters of the way to the door, Tsukishima paused. 

Something was off. A hushed sonance had fallen over the hall, a silence in stark contrast to the rowdiness of the grilling area before. 

“Megane-kun, look out!” he heard a voice call to his side. When he turned to see who it was, he was met with a slab of sizzling veal to the face. He slowly wiped the grease dripping down his face and glared at the boy with an empty pan, in spite of the suppressed giggles all around.

_I hate Kuroo Tetsurou._

* * *

As much as he wanted to avoid him, however, Tsukishima could not lose the tail that was Kuroo Tetsurou. He seemed to follow wherever he went: to the grand hall for classes, to the dorms, even to the baths. He was a curse, an overcooked chunk of grade D beef. 

He would come to Tsukishima for taste-testing.

“Oi, Megane-kun, would you mind trying this for me?”

Tsukishima glowered at him before softening his expression into a smirk. “You know,” he started, taking the plate in his hands, “I like eating your food every now and then, Kuroo. Makes me appreciate restaurant-quality food so much more!” He took a bite and cringed.

_What the hell is this?! It’s musky and bitter and disgust_ \--

... _ing?_

Tsukishima’s eyes widened.

_It’s not anymore? Now it’s… buttery? And delicate, almost. Definitely rich._

Kuroo developed a smirk of his own. “ _Foie gras au jus_ , fattened duck liver with my own special sauce. It’s got a nasty first bite, but beyond that it’s creamy and savory delight, my friend,” Kuroo stated proudly, clapping Tsukishima on the back.

“We’re not friends,” Tsukishima countered as he set the plate down and turned back to his own dish. They were in the middle of an exam. He didn’t have time to deal with Kuroo. “How did you get to cook meat anyway? I thought we were suppose to be creating the thing we’re least comfortable with.”

“Ah, indeed, we’re making what we indicated on the mid-semester survey was our least comfortable dish,” Kuroo confirmed, although the snark in his voice seemed to denote that he was well aware of that _a priori_.

“You knew.”

Kuroo flashed him a toothy grin as he slid back to his station. “Of course I knew. Why do you think they asked that question on the survey?”

“You sneaky, little--”

“Ah ah ah, we’re not in the normal hall. Words travel easily in this cramped space.”

Once again, Tsukishima held his tongue and attempted to focus on his work. On the survey, he indicated that he wasn’t that great at vegetable dishes. In reality, he was alright at them. He just was better at everything else.

“Alright, alright, I’ll leave you be,” Kuroo relented, picking up his plates for the real taste testing. “Just let me know when you’re desperate to taste test for me again; there’s no need to be shy about it!”

“I didn’t ask!”

Kuroo held his hands up, raising his eyebrows. “Touchy, touchy, Megane-kun. I’ll just leave you to it, then.”

With that, Kuroo left to deliver his dish to the professors, confident in its ability to woo the chefs. _Especially since he cheated_ , Tsukishima tacks on in his head. As he turned back to his own work, he noticed Kenma do the same in the corner of his eye.

“Just ignore him,” Kenma said, his uninterested eyes trained on the cut of steak he said was his weakness.

“Not that easy,” Tsukishima retorts as he continues to roast his vegetables. He was making a goat cheese and roasted vegetable terrine, the vegetables being eggplant, zucchini, squash, bell peppers, and spinach, and the forcemeat substitute being goat cheese.

Kenma sniffed and looked up. “Sure it is.” He added some seasoning to the steak and continue to cook it in the scorching heat of the skillet. “Just find someone that he likes more than you.”

“Well, who do you use?”

Kenma paused, and for a moment, all that could be heard was the keen pitch of fork on plate or the scraping drum of knife on wood. “You, I guess.”

Tsukishima stopped cooking.

_Me?_

Tsukishima started cooking.

_Doesn’t matter._

_I don’t like Kuroo Tetsurou._

* * *

The day finally came when the invitations for each professor’s cooking school were sent out. The first set of sturdy, Luxe Cream cards came from the grillardin school of Nekomata Yasufumi. Unsurprisingly, Kuroo immediately accepted, eager to join the ranks of the professor that cooks his “weakness.”

An invitation was extended to Tsukishima as well, but he politely declined. He’d rather be a fry cook than work with the idiots that like to set meat on fire.

Kenma managed to part ways with the bane that was Kuroo Tetsurou, but not by a large margin. He accepted his invitation to the poissonier school led by the young and talented Misaki Hana.

Tsukishima again received an invitation, but this too was something he declined. Fish wasn’t as bad as steak, he supposed. But still, it was not the school for him.

A surprise was found in Yamaguchi’s invitation to the saucier school of Ukai Ikkei. Generally regarded as one of the higher tiered schools, the saucier association was eager to pick the freckled boy up. None were more shocked than Yamaguchi himself, however.

“I don’t know why you’re surprised, Yamaguchi. No one worked harder on their sauces than you did these past few months.” _His confections weren’t bad, but I think he wanted to be able to distinguish himself._

“Tsukiiii, you’re gonna make me blush!”

Yet again, Tsukishima received an invitation. Sauce was even better than fish, he supposed. Yet, he had his eyes set on another specialty.

The last invitations sent were from Irihata’s pâtissier school. And it was in that delicately methodical place that Tsukishima truly found solace. It certainly helped that it was about as far away from Kuroo’s specialty as one could get.

In the early days of their pâtissier lessons, Irihata taught them more sophisticated ways to glaze cakes, and practice was a necessity, Tsukishima determined. It was late one Tuesday night, later than anyone sane would be awake to practice their cooking, when Tsukishima decided to go down to the hall.

Unfortunately, Kuroo Tetsurou was far from being sane.

“Megane-kun!” he cried upon the arrival of Tsukishima, who promptly walked to the opposite end of the cooking hall. “Oi, don’t leave me here alone!”

But his cries fell on deaf ears, Tsukishima grumbling instinctually out of pure annoyance. He laid out his utensils at his counter and set to work on making the cake batter. It was a difficult task, frosting a cake, but one that went without cause if the cake underneath the glaze was subpar.

He was given pause, however, when he heard the clattering of cast-iron skillets and lethal butchering knives against the induction stovetop next to him. “It’s almost like you’re avoiding me or something.”

“I am avoiding you,” Tsukishima deadpanned.

“Ouch.”

“Please leave.”

Kuroo smirked and turned on the stove. “Sorry, bud. I’ve gotta finish my Steak Diane.” His hands floated across the countertop, somehow finding the fastest route to each knife, each skillet. 

“An American dish?” Tsukishima responded, giving a little laugh. “I suppose I’m not surprised.”

“You don’t approve of American cuisine?” Kuroo said, raising an eyebrow, along with a sizeable clump of his sable hair.

Tsukishima returned to his cake batter. “I don’t approve of _dated_ dishes, dishes that you likely haven’t the slightest clue as to what they represent.”

“Oh, I know the history alright.” Kuroo mused, eviscerating the hunk of steak into delicate slices. “Diana, goddess of the hunt, among other things. Starting in the early 19th century, chefs would make their sauces ‘a la Diane’ as an accompaniment to venison. These sauces were dedicated to the goddess herself.”

He continued to talk, tossing smatterings of seasoning onto the beefsteaks. “Well, I suppose the deistic dedication is more of a formality in this day and age. Now it’s all about what you cook it in, since the sauce is made from pan juices.”

“So you know a little bit about your dish. It doesn’t change the fact that a grillardin is a grillardin--a mindless, talentless dolt that likes to play with fire,” Tsukishima taunted, pouring his cake batter into three tins of varying sizes.

Kuroo ignored him, sautéeing his steaks with butter and olive oil. “Mushrooms, shallots, cream, chives. Steak sauce, Worcestershire sauce, Dijon.”

He paused, the steaks sizzling as the butter took root in the rare slices of meat.

“And it’s not mindless,” Kuroo retaliated. Tsukishima looked down for a moment, his eyes trained on the oven where his cakes sat. “You have to be considerate of what alcohol you flambé the meat with. And how much you use.”

Tsukishima scoffed.

“You don’t believe me?” Kuroo threw another slice into the pan. “I’ll prove it to you.”

He lifted the bottle of Madeira that he placed off to the side earlier.

“Not Cognac?” Tsukishima asked, surprised.

“That’d be nutty, Megane-kun,” Kuroo teased.

“Nuts, vanilla, caramel,” Tsukishima muttered, rattling off the list. “Would you not want those flavors to neutralize the mustard and the Worcestershire sauce?”

Kuroo poured the wine into the two pans slowly, letting a little dribble into the first one. “The Madeira will burn better, and it still has a walnut and caramel taste to it.” A grunt from Tsukishima let Kuroo know that he wasn’t convinced. “You’ll see.”

Meanwhile, Tsukishima was adding distilled lemon juice to his icing sugar and water mixture, the preface to his glacé frosting. “Perhaps…”

Tsukishima gazed at the icing as he mixed it, not bothering to see Kuroo with anything but his peripherals. But what his peripherals caught was intriguing. Kuroo--lazy, sarcastic, asshole Kuroo--was focused?

Not possible.

At that moment, a furious, earthy scent invaded his nose. He turned to see two hissing steak cuts swathed in vermillion and saffron. A glance upward revealed an illuminated smile and a pair of satisfied eyes. Suddenly, Tsukishima wasn’t sure if his face felt warm because of the flames or the person standing next to him.

As the flames died down, Kuroo pulled out two plates. With a deft hand and a spatula, he delivered the Steak Dianes from the pans to the plates, sprinkling some chopped parsley on top for good measure.

“Bon appetit, Kei,” he said with a toothy grin.

Tsukishima pushed up his glasses and huffed. “That’s _Tsukishima_ to you.”

Kuroo shrugged. “Fine by me, Tsukishima-chan.”

A glare from Tsukishima silenced him, and he held up his hands in self-defense. Taking his knife, he cut the steak into a bite-sized pieces and took a chunk to his mouth.

It wasn’t horrible.

But it wasn’t great, either.

“You can do better than this, Kuroo.”

Kuroo’s face remained stalwart, his eyes unwavering, his lips held firmly. “Try the other plate.”

“Fine.”

Tsukishima repeated his actions from before, cutting up the steak, dipping a piece of meat in the pan-juice sauce, and taking a bite.

There was an immediate difference, and Tsukishima couldn’t help the slight gasp he let out. The grub tasted sinewy, yet well seasoned as it melted in his mouth. And yet, the meat wasn’t the only thing he tasted; trickling in through the rinds of steak were pockets of pungent sauce. The mushrooms and the cream and the Worcestershire and the parsley; the broken down fats of the steak and the sophisticated stew of compounds, all blended together to create a divine burst of umami.

“K-Kuroo!”

Kuroo hummed as he untied his apron and removed his hat. “The first cut you tasted had slightly less Madeira than the second. I think my line of work might be a bit more complicated than you originally thought.”

He turned off the oven and started to walk away. “Now, since you so ate both of my pieces of Steak Diane, you get the honor of cleaning up my workspace. Au revoir!”

“Wait, Kuroo,” Tsukishima started as Kuroo continued to walk. “Kuroo? Kuroo!”

Tsukishima harrumphed.

_I have strong feelings towards Kuroo Tetsurou._

* * *

“While a _pièce montée_ is typically decorative in nature, the croquembouche is meant to be consumed.”

Tsukishima stood at his station in the pâtissier classroom as Irihata lectured them about creating a croquembouche, a cone-shaped tower of profiteroles draped with spun sugar and ganache.

“But that doesn’t mean you can slack off with your ornamentation,” Irihata added, chuckling. “You’ll find croquembouches at weddings or baptisms in France; they have to be completely devoid of imperfections. Each ball of choux pastry has to end up the same size, with the same composition. The dough has to be thick, yet pliant enough to fall from the beater, slowly, steadily.”

He rattled on; the croquembouche was a complex confection, but Tsukishima had made one before. He wasn’t concerned.

His ears perked up only when Irihata’s voice raised. “Do not take the croquembouche lightly--its quality is only as good as the emotions put into it!” He turned to Tsukishima and… smirked? 

_What’s that supposed to mean?_

“Hop to it, chefs!”

Tsukishima shook his head and set the oven to 425 degrees. Taking his ingredients in hand, he scattered precise amounts of salt and sugar into a saucepan, drizzling melted butter and water on top. 

“Rolling boil on the initial mixture! Don’t leave it on the heat even a millisecond too long!”

Groans echoed off the tile of the tight room. Clearly some people had already screwed up the nearly four hour dish.

The moment a bubble appeared, Tsukishima evacuated the pan from the dire heat of the stove. As the saucepan quickly cooled towards the temperature of the room, he added all the flour at once, stirring it in until each powdery granule had assimilated into the mixture.

After reheating it to remove excess moisture, Tsukishima scraped the doughy substance into the mixer, adding eggs one by one as the dough became glossy and the eggs disappeared. As a test, Tsukishima confirmed the quality of the dough by letting it drip off the mixer.

And it did so; slowly, steadily.

He piped generous kisses of the dough onto a tray using a pastry bag, pausing only to recall something Irihata had said. 

_“Do not take the croquembouche lightly--its quality is only as good as the emotions put into it!”_

Tsukishima grunted as he swiped egg wash across the orbs of dough. _Emotions, huh?_ His thoughts turned to Kuroo. _Stupid, stupid, Kuroo._

“Whoa there, Tsukishima-kun,” Irihata interrupted, placing a hand on his shoulder. “You’re supposed to be taking the tips off the dough from the pastry bag, but you’re practically obliterating the chunks altogether.”

“S-Sorry, sir,” Tsukishima stuttered, taken aback. _What did I just do?_

Irihata chuckled. “I said to put your emotions into it, but I didn’t realize you were this angry all the time.”

“I-I’m not angry, sir. I’m not sure why I was so forceful with the egg wash.”

“Hm… If it’s not anger…” Irihata stood, scratching his neck. “Tell me, who were you thinking of?”

Tsukishima felt the flush that swirled onto his cheeks, leaving splotches of pink at his cheeks. “Sir?”

“It could be helpful,” Irihata offered.

“Kuroo,” Tsukishima said under his breath.

Irihata held a hand to his ear. “I’m sorry?”

“Kuroo Tetsurou,” Tsukishima declared, clearing his throat.

His professors’s eyes went wide, just before he developed a hearty laugh as he clutched at his chest. “Kuroo, eh?” Irihata gave one more shout of a laugh before he clapped Tsukishima on the back, perhaps a bit too forcefully. “You’re right, that certainly isn’t anger.”

He started to walk away, leaving a note behind. “Careful not to let those feelings of yours stay in the oven too long. You might walk away with some scorch marks.”

Tsukishima scrunched up his nose and turned his attention back to the oven. _Yeah, but what kind of feelings are they?_

As if to drop one last hint, Irihata spoke to the whole class: “As a gift to all of you, you’re free to give your completed croquembouche to whomever you wish. Perhaps a loved one?”

Tsukishima choked out a strained pocket of air. _L-Loved one?_

Truth is rarely subtle, and so when warmth returned to his cheeks and to the tips of his ears, Tsukishima let out a groan.

_I like Kuroo Tetsurou._

* * *

Tsukishima isn’t surprised to find Kuroo in the grand hall after hours. He’s discovered that Kuroo is more devoted than he lets on.

“Well, if it isn’t Megane-kun!” he chided from his flaming workspace.

“Keep your eyes on the flames, hothead!” Tsukishima shouted back. Kuroo cackled, but he did as he was told. 

He approached Kuroo with reluctant footsteps, his croquembouche held still on the tray in his hands. 

The final product was more impressive than he thought was possible. The cone sat perfectly symmetrical on its nougatine base, with opalescent threads of caramel woven delicately around the tower. Ganache stagnated in a drizzle from the spire of the croquembouche, the chocolate and cream coating nearly every profiterole in the cone.

Tsukishima set the dish on the counter and stood adjacent to Kuroo.

Kuroo raised an eyebrow but kept his eyes on the flaming meat in front of him. “You’ve already made a dessert? Then why are you here?”

“This dessert,” Tsukishima started, coughing a little, “this dessert is for you.”

Kuroo hastily lidded the pans, extinguishing the flames inside. He turned to see the confection that Tsukishima had placed at his side, his mouth opening as he took in the grandiosity of it. “A croquembouche?” The boy smirked at Tsukishima. “For me?” he ribbed.

“Shut it,” Tsukishima countered. “It’s only fair; you made me a dish, so--”

“So when are we getting married?!” Kuroo interrupted, a curved grin splayed across his face. 

“M-Married?” Tsukishima stammered, rubbing his neck sheepishly. “We aren’t getting married, Kuroo.”

Kuroo frowned. “But aren’t croquembouches for weddings?”

“Or baptisms!”

“Well, I don’t _see_ you dunking me into a river, but I suppose that _certainly_ can be arranged--”

“I’m not baptizing you!”

“Then why are you giving this to me,” Kuroo deadpanned.

Tsukishima paused, his hand held still in the air. Then he dropped it to his side. “Because I want you to have it.”

Kuroo smirked. “And why, might I ask would you want--”

“Because I’m in love with you, Kuroo!” Tsukishima shouted. Kuroo went silent, and his smile disappeared. Tsukishima breathed out slowly before he continued. “You’re a detestable asshole, and you have no sense of restraint. You’re cocky, full of yourself, unbearable as a whole--”

“Hey, now--”

“You’ve got ridiculous bedhead all the time, you lack respect, and you can’t even keep your eye on a flaming piece of meat,” Tsukishima finished, breathing heavily. “You’re a mess, but… but I’m in love with you.”

Kuroo was left with his mouth agape, his eyes wide with incredulity. Seeing his chance, Tsukishima stepped forward and brought his mouth to Kuroo’s. 

Tsukishima was alone in the effort at first. But soon after the start, Kuroo’s hands found their place at the sides of Tsukishima’s head, and he pressed back into the kiss. 

Kuroo only paused to whisper, “I love you.”

With both of their eyes closed, they continued for what seemed like years, accompanied only by the hissing of the steak inside the pan.

Tsukishima pulled back. “Alright, take it easy, Tetsu. You’re gonna get your nasty saliva all over my croquembouche.”

“I thought it was _my_ croquembouche, Kei,” Kuroo responded, his voice coquettish.

“Fine. You’re gonna get your nasty saliva all over _your_ croquembouche.”

“Better,” Kuroo said, grinning.

Tsukishima leaned his head onto Kuroo’s shoulder and closed his eyes. There wasn’t anywhere else he wanted to be.

“So, do you often stick your tongue into other people’s open mouths?”

“Shut up.”

**Author's Note:**

> Irihata, _you sly dog you_
> 
> Side note, if any of you have a working knowledge of 2nd order nonlinear nonhomogeneous differential equations, hmu because heh *nervous chuckles* *faints*


End file.
